Survival
by grasper
Summary: The night Matt dies, Mello survives thus beginning his downward spiral into a living hell on Earth. Who better to complete his downfall than the man whose sanity wanders between this world and beyond? MelloxBB. M for language, violence, drug references.
1. The Beginning of the End

Disclaimer: Death Note isn't mine. You know the drill.

* * *

During the critical moment, Mello just happened to glance at the rear view mirror. He was checking his hair. His stupid bangs were getting long. He casually brushed the blond hair out of his eyes with one gloved hand when he noticed Takada Kiyomi scribbling something onto a small piece of paper.

Sudden comprehension mixed with no time to think out a better plan of action, Mello raised the gun screaming "YOU BITCH!" as he fired. Reflexively almost. Takada slumped to the floor. Her doll face barely had the time to form an 'oh' of surprise. Glassy eyes stared as blood gushed out from the grisly hole that the .45 caliber bullet left dead center in her forehead. Grey sludgy brain matter followed soon after, dribbling out like dog slobber. Fragments of bone splattered the inside of the van creating a splotchy pattern reminiscent of a Rorschach inkblot test. The paper, the seemingly innocent piece of paper, fell from her small hands. Not yet drenched in blood, Mello could make out the characters 'M-i-h-a-e-l-K-e-e-h- scrawled on it with irritatingly neat penmanship. Saved by one letter. He lived because of one fucking letter. One fucking letter that Takada failed to write BECAUSE SHE WAS TOO FUCKING BUSY MAKING SURE ALL OF THE LETTERS WERE WRITTEN PERFECTLY. What saved him wasn't his intelligence. It was dumb luck.

Fuck. FUCK. Mello's heart was racing, pumping his body full of adrenaline. The gun was still smoking. Blood continued to pool. The van reeked of the liquid metal. The blanket he had given Takada was completely soiled and completely unrecognizable. Not that he wanted that …thing back. He took a deep breath. He wished Matt were there to give him a cigarette. He could really fucking use one to calm him down. Matt always laughed at Mello while he spluttered and coughed as the smoke tickled, no, burned his trachea. It wasn't Mello's fucking fault that his body couldn't stand the smoke but he tried anyway. If Matt, who hated scotch, could down shots of scotch with Mello, Mello could deal with the smoke. Matt… He quickly shut down that train of thought. Thinking of Matt was like jabbing rusty nails into a festering wound that hadn't quite healed. They grew up together in a world of anti-social genii trapped in their own worlds. They respected each other. Understood each other. In life, Matt was Mello's best and dearest friend. In death, Matt became the eagle that tore at Prometheus's liver, feasting ravenously upon the bloody chunks of his flesh. Dead! His best friend was dead. He himself narrowly escaped death. He should have been happy. He wasn't. He let out a strangled laugh. The noise that escaped his vocal cords was an inhuman wail. Hoarse. Desperate.

Mello had no idea why he felt like laughing. Nothing was particularly amusing about the situation. Nothing was funny anymore. But he couldn't think of anything else to do. He was angry, mostly at himself…but he couldn't think of any other way to take it out. He looked down at the body. "Not so fucken pretty now are you?" He said to no one in particular. He shot another bullet, the explosion of gunpowder drowned out the screaming in Mello's head for a full, precious second. The body jerked at the impact. Thick gastrointestinal juices joined the pool of grey and red and Takada's desecrated body emptied its bladder as her what was left of her central nervous system faded away. _I underestimated that bitch._ He thought bitterly. _Never again. That… that is the last time I'm showing any fucking trace of compassion._

He turned his body away from the mess he created to face forward. He leaned his head back on the driver's seat with his eyes closed. He clutched his aching right shoulder with his left hand… the recoil from the Beretta wasn't pleasant. Ross raised an eyebrow when Mello picked that gun. He knew his frame wasn't bulky enough but Mello didn't give a shit. He wanted to create giant messy holes. Holes from which his targets couldn't recover. He dropped his head on the steering wheel and tried taking deep calming breaths through his nose. He gagged almost immediately. The smell of all the evacuated viscera was putrid. It was beginning to make his eyes water. He rubbed his eyes roughly with one fluid motion using back of his hand. He winced slightly as the leather brushed against the delicate scar tissue that marred half of his once innocent looking face. Mello hadn't forgiven Kira for his face, not because he was vain, but because it was evidence that he miscalculated the situation. It was evidence that he fucked up.

It was the kind of evidence that made Near such an intolerable condescending shit. Not that Near had actually said anything when he saw Mello's appearance when the two of them met at SPK headquarters. He twirled his white hair—made eerier by the glow of all the television screens that surrounded him—around his fingers and marched action figures across the floor with a knowing smirk on his lips. Near didn't need to say anything. Second best. Those words may as well have been permanently tattooed to his thin lips. The image was taunting him.

Mello clenched his hands into tight angry fists at the thought of that dipshit and punched the dashboard with his left hand. The glass smashed and the speedometer dangled uselessly, separated from its underlying circuitry. He inhaled sharply and then cursed under his breath. His knuckles throbbed painfully from the impact. Subcutaneous hemorrhage. The delicate tissue of his capillaries had been ruptured but his skin was not broken; the leather had protected him. He was still clinging onto the gun with his right hand. His muscles were screaming for him to let go. But to be honest, he couldn't let go of the gun. He needed to hold on to something solid to calm him down. The cold metal of the gun felt reliable. Unbreakable. The urge to punch shit until his knuckles were raw hadn't subsided yet. Pistol-whip something maybe. But he knew now was not the time. He needed to leave. He needed to fucking disappear and hide somewhere safe so he could think. Clear his head.

He climbed out of the van, stumbling as he did so. It was as though the Earth had a stronger gravitational pull outside. He fell on all fours and he could feel vomit clawing up the back of his throat from the sudden change in position. The acid burned his insides as it ascended his esophagus. But Mello refused to puke. He forced the feeling back down and angrily spit out the acrid taste in his mouth. Water would wash out the rest.

And Mello's first innocent thought of that evening came to him with the exaggerated weight of an Acme anvil. Shit…What am I going to do now? He couldn't even stomach the thought of going back to his grubby apartment. Not that he ever liked that shit hole. It was cheap and cheap came with giant cockroaches that made too much fucking noise at night. But it wasn't the roaches that bothered him anymore… too much of Matt's stuff was there. But he had to go back. He needed to retrieve several of his belongings. Clothes. Chocolate. Bullets. Nitroglycerin. Just to name a few items. He was going to get revenge if it was the last fucking thing he did. Even if it cost him everything. Even if it meant falling from grace in the eyes of his deceased idol.

* * *

Well wasn't that cheerful :3

Please leave reviews if you liked this. I may continue this story.


	2. Descent

Disclaimer: Death Note isn't mine etc.

* * *

The next morning Mello woke up to find himself curled up on the couch with a dull pain radiating from his arm. He groaned and opened his eyes to examine the damage. His left bicep was covered in what appeared at first glance to be an ugly, poorly done tattoo due to its immense size, but was really a purple and green bruise surrounded by a border of inflamed red skin. Mello poked it and took a sharp intake of breath, instantly regretting doing so. The eyesore was fucking tender. He had no idea how or where he got the damage from. It was beginning to piss him off. He rose to his feet to retrieve an icepack when something on the table caught his eye. It was the steady blinking light of Matt's DS telling him that the battery was fully recharged and ready for use. Mello forgot about the ice, and his arm almost immediately. The flashing green LED effectively undid all of the forgetting he was doing last night._ FUCK_.

He remembered it all. His best friend died. News reporter bitch died. Mello survived and as the sole survivor in a city where all the people he cared about were dead, he did the only thing that made sense to him. He stopped at a bar in Shinjuku where he drank shot after shot of cheap whiskey and when he couldn't taste alcohol anymore, shots of scotch. The liquor burned as it sloshed down his throat quelling the fire in his body and replacing it with an unspeakably beautiful numbness. He was being cleansed. Absolved by the healing power of alcohol.

For a few hours, he was free. Mello was FREE. He didn't have to feel guilty for surviving. The ghost of his dearest friend Matt and the wonderfully shot-up vision of Takada shut the fuck up when he was them, Mello could finally fucking breathe and he made the most of those precious moments of liberation. He sucked in that precious shade-free air as ravenously as a starving pit bull given a feast of bloody vaguely remembered Hitomi the bartender "accidentally" pressing her plastic tits together in her skimpy top as she leaned over the counter. He vaguely remembered trying to kick-start his motorcycle.

But none of those memories were concrete. All things considered, it was a fucking miracle that Mello even managed to crawl back to the apartment that night. He walked into that damn bar, his pockets filled with crisp 10,000 yen bills-courtesy of Miss Kira's spokesperson's wallet- with the intention of drinking enough of that shitty whiskey to drown in it. The absence of a hangover today though meant clearly something or someone interfered that plan.

Mello suspected that was the reason his goddamn arm was bruised. _Tch._ He clenched his hands in tight fists, ignoring the cries of pain from his left arm. He was deaf to pain. The fire the whiskey had extinguished the night before returned in full force. He was blazing. The destructive mood he was in had not subsided. He...He wanted to kick something. No. He needed to kick something. Break something. Tear something apart. He took a second glance at the table to find a suitable victim. He couldn't bring himself to break Matt's DS. Matt had loved that piece of hardware. The digital clock would suffice. Mello hated the annoying mechanical BEEP BEEP of that alarm anyway. He lifted it above his head to throw it violently against the floor but the date on the black and grey display of the clock made him stop. He realized with a start that today was the 28th of January. Today was the day that Near would throw his aces on the table to solve the Kira case once and for all.

How did he know this? The infinite stupidity of the woman named Halle Lidner. While Near chose to waste Mello's time by telling him to follow that stupid blonde idol Misa Amane, Agent Lidner had been more than generous with information, slipping Mello her phone number and a sly wink that hinted at something more. Mello tore up the piece of paper with her number on it as soon as it was handed to him. As much as Mello liked a good fuck, he hated dealing with emotional bullshit and as admittedly arousing as Lidner was, she talked too damn much. Lidner smirked, her gaze playful, as she teasingly said that Mello would regret it. He didn't. He was sick of playing mind games. It didn't matter anyway as he would remember the number but Lidner did not have to know that. More importantly however, Lidner trusted him. She was a fool and Mello would exploit that. Mello knew she would leak information from Near's side because she sincerely believed Mello would ultimately do the right thing. She was convinced Mello would work with Near to take down a greater evil. Maybe it was because of the rosary Mello wore around his neck. So when Mello finally called… she told him everything. Down to every last detail.

"Come to Daikoku Wharf on the 28th Mello", she had said over the phone with a small red-lipstick smile on her face.

"Come and see the fruits of your labor."

There was a long silence before Mello responded.

"It looks like…I am the only one who can do that."

He said finally and disconnected. That conversation took place approximately two days ago. What Lidner didn't know, what she couldn't have known was that two days later, Mello was beyond redemption. The night L died, Mello began questioning his budding faith in the divine. The night Matt died, Mello snapped the rosary in half. Mello was dead and dead men stopped caring about doing what was right.

Mello calmed down. _Warehouse. If I am going to bring you some closure, Matt… it would be better sooner rather than later._ He actually set the clock back down on the table without breaking it. It survived Mello's anger unscathed- a feat that was rarely heard of. Mello removed the Beretta from its holster and checked the clip. Nine bullets. It was more than enough for what he intended on doing. He stood up. The fire was controlled now. He had a direction and a purpose. Mello was ready to act. He would take Lidner up on her invitation. He began gathering his equipment. He would be making a surprise appearance at the wharf.

Meanwhile, another man watched Mello as he paced back and forth from the window of a neighboring apartment. _His numbers are tantalizing_ the man thought to himself. He grinned widely, his smile stretching from ear-to-ear. Cheshire cat. Beyond Cat. He giggled. He couldn't help it. Something about low numbers sent an excited tingle down his spine. An old reflex that had never quite died. _Mihael Keehl. _He squinted as he read. _I've got my eyes on you~_

_

* * *

_

Enter Mr. Birthday. This chapter is fairly short, but I hope you enjoyed. Read and Review if you will.


	3. The Raven That Caws

Death Note is not mine etc etc.

* * *

.

….A few weeks earlier…

Prisoner 91298, also known as Beyond Birthday was in solitary confinement the night he heard through the grapevines of the Los Angeles County maximum security prison that L was dead. HA! What grapevines? B just remembered the numbers. And by his calculations—the scratch marks that he had been diligently etching on the wall with a stolen fork to record the passing of a cycle of day and night— L was dead. But who knew? The numbers only informed him when a person's life would end naturally. An early departure was always possible.

More than possible; it was extremely likely. Early departures were happening more and more frequently these days. It was impossible to conceal that fact. Prisoners were dying and it was not the usual, one or two deaths a month. Prisoners were suddenly dropping like flies, foaming at the mouth, fingers twitching as they clutched their expiring hearts. The first wave of deaths, ended in a pile of one hundred corpses that left a muggy rotting stench in the air that was later replaced by the sharp acrid tang of bleach. Cardiac arrest claimed over eighty five percent of the criminals in the rank hellhole that Beyond Birthday had been forced to exist in for the past year. It wasn't uncommon to wake up to crying and pleading at odd hours of the night. The remaining prisoners wailed and bargained with everyone from God, Satan even their goddamn Mothers for their pathetic lives. These unexplained, unprovoked deaths had reminded everyone that they could die at any moment and consequently the penitentiary had fallen into complete madness. Beyond wanted no damn part of it.

As for why there were any survivors at all…. well B had not fleshed out a complete explanation yet…but he had heard whispers amongst the guards. Whispers about a mass murderer named Kira yielding the supernormal ability of being able to kill with only a name and face. _Heh._ Beyond could believe that. If he could see names and numbers, it wasn't unfeasible for someone to use that information to kill them. But if he had to be honest with himself… that fact infuriated him. Not that B had particularly relished killing people, no. He was furious because it was as though his own unique vision was somehow incomplete, inferior to Kira's abilities. As though he had become yet another person's goddamn back up. He bit his hand to calm himself. Never again. Never again. He rocked himself quietly shivering as he did so. He was afraid. Not of death. The deaths didn't bother him. His gift, his sight, reminded him every day that death was just around the corner. No, he was afraid because Kira was making his numbers, the numbers that sang the sad finite story of a person's lifespan, meaningless.

But those thoughts were the thoughts of a man forced to decay even as he was living. B grinned. It was different now. It had all changed for the better. So many good things happened the night L's star faded from existence. They were transferring B to a new facility while he waited on death row. The prison wards put him in a van alone. Alone! Those morons left him alone! And that was only the first mistake. The second mistake was perhaps not as obvious. The second mistake was the driver. The wonderful driver was going have the honor of sharing L's death day. Alone and with a man that would die within 24 hours? _Ha_. It was almost as though somebody _wanted_ B to escape. Some may have even called it…divine intervention. Whatever it was, B had no intention of wasting this opportunity. Any more time spent being incarcerated and he really would go crazy. The prison psychiatrist already thought he was. Psychiatrists, plural, to be more exact.

The first so-called doctor was an idiot. He diagnosed Beyond with Manic-depressive disorder. B had to bite his lower lip to stifle the laughter. The second one suggested he was schizophrenic. All in all, it was all very entertaining for they were all terribly wrong. B liked listening to idiots pretending to know what they were talking about. It tickled him. The last psychiatrist, however, was smarter than the others.

"Mr. uhm… Birthday." She had said in a tone that indicated that she did not believe it really was B's last name as she read it off of the clipboard.

Beyond didn't acknowledge that she said anything and picked imaginary dirt from under his pristine fingernails.

"Ah yes, the previous psychiatrists said that you would ignore me Mr. Birthday. You have been diagnosed with bi-polar disorder and schizophrenia… but I don't think you are either of those. In fact, I think you are a case of Narcissistic Personality Disorder."

B grinned widely revealing his canines. _NPD._ It was actually not a bad diagnosis. It sounded almost close to valid. For that, B decided to actually pay this doctor some attention. He looked up and looked at the psychiatrist. More specifically, he carefully examined the empty air above her head and then smiled patiently at her, with a look of pity in his eyes during the rest of their "session." The psychiatrist, Dr. Marie Schwain was going to die next week. B hoped it would be painful. Preferably something that would cause an explosion of red to fly from her falling body like twinkling shooting stars.

B shook himself out of those memories of the past. He estimated 10 minutes had passed since the van began moving. He needed to act quickly before he lost his chance forever.

"Pssst~" He called out to the driver through the bars.

The driver ignored him as he drove. He was used to scum heckling him. What he wasn't prepared for was the fact that Beyond was not an ordinary man.

"I typically do not take kindly to being ignored"—B frowned as he turned his gaze to the space above the other man's head—"Mr. …ah… Mr. Jonathan Fresoda. Yes, Mr. Fresoda, you must please pardon my terrible manners, these atrocious steel bars make it difficult for me to see your name clearly."

Jonathan Fresoda was alarmed. He did not recall ever telling Prisoner 91298 his name. And just what the hell did he mean by, 'see his name?' His foot faltered on the accelerator.

"Would you like to know something Mr. Fresoda?" B continued with childishly innocent smile playing on his lips. "It concerns something very important to you. So important that I should think…that you will _die_ when you hear it." He pressed his lips to the bars, as close to the other man's ears as possible and whispered "Because…Mr. Fresoda, You~ are~ go~ ing~ to~ die~ to~ day~"

Jonathan Fresoda was now completely unnerved. He jerked the steering wheel in surprise and the van swerved out of control. Beyond stared the clock on the dashboard, his eyes wide, dark pupils dancing with mad excitement. Jonathan Fresoda now only had minutes to live.

"Happy Death Day to you, Happy Death day to you~ Happy Death Day Jonathan Fresoda~ Happy Death Day to you~" B sang as the tires screeched. A high-pitched wail sounded on the deserted highway. The hour hand pointed at the number six inscribed in tacky Roman numerals, the minute hand pointed at the number nineteen. And when the second hand pointed at 37 seconds, the van came to an abrupt halt by nicking a concrete high way divider. Glass smashed, metal crunched and the air bag inflated. Jonathan Fresoda was knocked unconscious, thick rivulets of the beautiful red flowing from his temple.

The door to the back of the van flew open from the impact and B climbed out. The rays of the Los Angeles morning sun beat down on his pale sun starved skin for the first time in over a year. But B did not escape the crash completely unscathed. He dabbed at a small lump on his forehead muttering angrily to himself as he did so. He yanked Fresoda's body out of the driver's seat and carelessly tossed the body onto the asphalt directly in front of the van. B quickly found the keys to the handcuffs in the other man's pant's pockets. He unlocked the cuffs and massaged his naked wrists for a moment, smiling as he did so.

He quickly relieved Fresoda of his clothes and put them on himself. The neon orange prison garb really was not to Beyond's taste. He looked down at the naked soon-to-be-corpse by his feet. Fresoda's life would end in less than two hundred seconds. _Perfect. _That left just enough time for an experiment. B climbed into the driver's seat and turned on the ignition. The engine responded with a gentle hum. Beyond accelerated. The van lurched upwards and came crashing back down as B ran over the body in the middle of the road. The bones in Fresoda's body crunched as they snapped and became powder under the pressure of becoming two-dimensional. Beyond watched in the rear view mirror as Jonathan Fresoda's numbers disappeared a few seconds early. B smiled again. He was doing a lot of that recently, but Beyond really did have quite a lot to be happy about on the day L's star faded from existence. He was free. Free! And he had quite a bit of catching up to do…. He was just DYING to know who was the new L.

.

* * *

And here we have it a completely B-centric chapter. Mello will be back next chapter and the two of them will meet soon!

Oh and I suppose I should clarify a point or two. In this fic, Beyond met L in person as he was being arrested which is why he knows L's name and lifespan. Also, when B refers to L's death day, he is referring to the date dictated by L's life span, NOT the date L was actually killed by Kira which was sometime in November. B's prison break takes place early-mid January and obviously L has already been dead for several years. B has no way of knowing this however. I hope that clears any confusion that may arise.

And as always, please leave any comments you have in a review~


	4. The Art of Sculpting a Face

As always, Death Note is not mine etc, etc.

* * *

January 28th Late Morning.

Beyond Birthday turned his curious eyes away from Mihael Keehl and stepped away the windowsill, a wide smile still plastered on his face. He had quite a fair amount of business to take care of before he could properly introduce himself to Mr. Keehl. Unsuspecting, intriguing, somewhat dashing Mr. Keehl. _Hee~_

It was no coincidence that Beyond Birthday ran into Mello in Japan. Their encounter was not due to a force as fickle as random chance. No, it was destined. Fated. Now admittedly, B knew nothing about Mello. For instance, if he were asked what the young man liked to eat, he would not have the slightest idea. But it did not matter. Those details were shallow, completely mutable in nature and laughably irrelevant in what they contributed to the portrait of Man. What B knew of Mello, what B could relate to intimately, was the determination that fueled Mello's core from one backup to another.

It was not difficult for a man with Beyond's brilliance to remotely hack into Roger's computer from a cheap motel room in Los Angeles…but the information he unearthed had surprised him. L Lawliet died many years ago. Killed by Kira. Although Beyond no longer felt the need to revenge fuck with L's head—years of solitary confinement made him re-evaluate his old goals—he could not fully suppress a pout when he read that. L wasn't supposed to be outsmarted by anyone else. But it was okay. Beyond believed in forgiveness; he could forgive L.

When B was still welcome at the Wammy House all those years ago, back when he was known by the name Backup—the filthy, degrading name Backup—he met L Lawliet in person. Twice, as a matter of fact. But it was only much later that Beyond Birthday realized this.

The first time, L had stopped by the House for only a few minutes while Watari went to speak to Roger. L, of course, chose to keep to himself. He did not bother greeting anyone, preferring instead to stand hunched over by the wall. He waited quietly twirling a lollipop in his long slim fingers, his bare toes tapping an impatient rhythm against the hardwood floor. Beyond, preoccupied by thoughts of playtime, did not even glance twice at the odd man as he barreled through the hallway. He had no idea that the strange man he ran past was the L he was training to become. L did not even bother looking in B's direction.

The circumstances in which he met L Lawliet a second time were very different. It was the evening the boy known only as A was found hanging from the ceiling fan. Beyond had been the one to find him. A had been a punctual creature, and a dear friend so when A failed to show up for their usual game of chess before supper, Beyond knew something was awry. Beyond went a-searching. He knocked on A's door. There was no answer. Normally A would call out a polite "Just a moment please" so this irregularity had been very strange to Beyond. The reason for the silence was obvious now in retrospect. Dead little boys didn't answer doors. But the younger Beyond Birthday would find that out for himself shortly.

He opened A's door to see…nothing. His eyes were special, but he was still shackled to the limitations of the human retina. They lacked the feline adaptions that would enable him to see in the dark and so he was blind, but not blind. Beyond groped his fingers along the wall searching for the switch that would turn on the light and accidentally nudged the switch for the fan in the on position as he did so. Immediately a loud metallic crunch sounded from the darkness. B jumped in surprise.

"A...?" He called out timidly.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk came the response.

"A…..?" His voice took on a somewhat panicked quality.

His fingers found the correct switch and B's eyes widened in horror. The light illuminated A's limp body rotating slowly from the ceiling like a pig over a spitfire. The body had a post-mortem erection. B was horrified; so horrified that all he could do was stagger backwards quickly clapping his hand to his mouth. He clamped his white teeth down on the skin at the junction of thumb and palm, screaming in silence as the fan continued to whirr. His teeth broke through the skin and he began to bleed. He could taste the metallic iron bite of his blood. A's body completed another revolution. _Aberrant. Anonymous. Apparition. Alias. Agelast. Amaranth. …A…A corpse. A was DEAD. _He knew he had to call for help, but instead he was frozen in place, feeling as though he would drown in an ocean of nausea and helplessness.

L came back to the Wammy House that night for one purpose, and one purpose alone and that was to confirm neither B nor anyone else was in involved in A's death. Even then, L had not bothered to even breathe in B's direction. He took one glance at the crime scene, mumbling "Suicide" before he shuffled away without a spare thought for the boy whose death he was indirectly responsible for. He returned to the Roll's Royce, the red taillights of the car blinking as the car pulled away from the orphanage. That was when something in Beyond changed permanently. He was determined. He would force L to fucking look at him and get his revenge. He was going to become the face that consumed L's thought during the day and haunted his dreams at night. He was going to be the case L failed to solve.

And he had been so very close to achieving that goal. The third and final time he saw L was at the conclusion of that sordid affair with Naomi Misora. As the Los Angeles police cuffed and roughly forced him into the back of a patrol car even while his clothing still reeked of gasoline, his eyes were treated to the most rewarding sight on the planet: the hero of his past and the rival of his present, emerging from the shadows, a vision in white cotton and blue denim, his exhausted looking face accented softly by the red numbers floating above his head like friendly specters. This time, B saw what he wanted. Backup was finally reflected in the original's dark eyes. _Ha…L Lawliet. I made you look. _ The police car drove away increasing the distance between the two men.

This was all in the past however. He had discovered something equally as fascinating as L Lawliet and that was Mihael Keehl. Roger's computer helpfully revealed the code names of the two brightest students at the Wammy House: Near and Mello. Near, if test scores were indicative of intelligence, was more intelligent than Mello by a small margin. But Mello, it seemed, had left the orphanage before Near to pursue the Kira case and Beyond respected a man of action far more than he did a man of idleness. Yes, Mello had piqued his curiosity… and now he was finally going to meet him.

But first! His face. Something had to be done about his face. He wanted to give Mr. Keehl a surprise. He walked over to the dresser where a bag containing expensive cosmetics and custom made prosthetics awaited their master. B carefully unzipped the bag and removed a vial of foundation, concealer, makeup glue, tweezers and dark eye shadow, staring at each item, handling them lovingly in his fingers as though they were made of priceless china before aligning them neatly in front of the mirror. B loved mirrors. He loved the reflection that smiled back at him. But he loved watching the process of distorting his handsome face into that of another's even more. The process of transforming, becoming, and **being** was electrifying. B stifled a happy giggle as he pressed his fingers against the canvas of his skin. His long slim fingers glided like pond skaters across the smooth milky surface. The metamorphosis was about to begin! Soon Beyond Birthday would shed his ugly wrinkled caterpillar shell and become a beautiful butterfly. Admired, no, loved by all! Free from the constraints of gravity! Tonight, he would steal the face of his favorite dead person. Heart-breakingly beautiful, heroic, L Lawliet. Pre-rotting corpse of course.

Even thinking about it sent a series of wonderful tingles—dirty tingles—down his spine. He shivered, savoring the odd sensation that settled in his crotch for the briefest of moments before letting his fingers fly.

The beginnings. First he needed to make very subtle changes to his facial architecture. Beyond carefully lathered glue onto one side of a flesh colored strip of silicone and molded it precisely along the side of his nose to artificially raise the bridge. A second piece elongated the tip of his nose. A third piece gave him more prominent cheekbones. He carefully examined himself in the mirror and grinned at the Frankenstein face that was reflected in it. _Perfect_.

He picked up the tweezers between two fingers. This was one part he was less fond of; this was the painful part of his transformation. His eyebrows had to go. He carefully positioned the tweezer point at the root of the hair and pulled away with a quick jerk of his wrist. A sharp pinprick of pain and red blossomed at the site taking the place of the follicle. Pluck. Twinge. Pluck. Twinge. Throughout this, B's expression remained as unreadable as a Sphinx. B touched his hairless brow, rubbing the newly exposed skin underneath. He applied a shade of the palest beige foundation liberally over his face taking care to blend it in as smoothly as possible. The foundation was several shades too light for him, which created a mask like effect. He was no longer Sphinx like; He was a porcelain doll wearing a smile that showed too many canines. He was…so fucking close…He panted happily, as one hand wandered to his crotch. Erect. He was hard. But not yet! Not yet! The transformation was incomplete! The pleasure could wait. He was determined to finish before satisfying the need...

He brought his hands up to his head. He began carefully arranging his dark hair sloppily above his eyes, with a precision that mocked the wild, effortlessly messy hair he was trying to emulate. He looked in the mirror again, and the need grew even stronger. …All he was missing now was the dark circles. He desperately grabbed the eye shadow and carefully, tenderly drew in two smudges of gray under his eyes… He squeezed his eyes shut as his hands immediately flew towards the erection that had now become almost painful. He freed himself from the constraint of his pants, stroking his length, twitching in his seat with every up down motion. Soft moans escaped his lips, as the contact, the wonderful friction sent waves of pleasure rolling through his body. He opened his eyes as he bucked his hips upwards. He gasped as he caught his reflection in the mirror. L Lawliet lived. He came.

* * *

Woah B is creepy. Anyway, apologies for the slow update. Been sorta busy. Hope you enjoyed reading this chapter.

And yes, I lied, Mello did not feature in this chapter, but I promise, he WILL be in the next chapter! This I can guarantee because I've written about half of it.

Also, Read and Review. Makes my day :3


End file.
